Black as Ink
by Jaxrond
Summary: A Scotswoman who grew up lost in the dredges of London society, Elizabeth was never meant to do anything great or impactful. She certainly wasn't meant to fight in a war between the forces of Good and Evil. Nor was she meant to find happiness in a family who cared about her. Yet, somehow, these things happened. And the taste of happiness and love isn't something easily given up.


**Warning: Dark themes and some language.**

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Pain was something that Elizabeth Macshuibhne had become accustomed to at an early age. A childhood spent under the compulsory school legislation passed by the Queen had ensured that she was safe from working in the sweatshops. But, that hadn't kept her out of the streets, selling textiles alongside her mother. Or from wading into the mud of the Thames with her father and brother, finding anything that might be sellable. When she turned ten, and the schooling law no longer applied to her, she was made to wander the streets day in and day out, trying to provide for her family. Scotsmen in London weren't uncommon, but, they didn't have the chance to make much of a living. What had possessed her father to leave Glasgow, she didn't know. Nor did she have much time to think on it, what with the need for food and fresh water dominating her waking hours. Pain was no stranger in those hours. The pain of hunger. The pain of thirst. The pain of all-too-frequent illness. The pain of the passers-by who backhanded the dirty urchin who dared approach them with a basket of linens. The pain of the hand in her hair when she was caught pickpocketing.

The worst pain came when father said that they weren't bringing enough money in, that they had to get more creative. There had been true regret in his eyes when he deliberately scarred her face with a rusted razor, dangerously close to her eye. Mother had treated it enough to stave away infection, but no more. She had to look as unfortunate as possible, they said. At least they hadn't taken any fingers, or crippled her, like had been done to some of the other little ones. A pretty face wouldn't have gotten her far anyway, brother James told her, not unless she wanted to sell herself, and that'd end her up in hell. She agreed with him. She saw the adults who had been doing this their whole lives, scraping by until they couldn't scrape anymore. Consumption, dysentery, starvation, worms, the list of killers of the poor went on. No one had any use for an urchin, especially not one who was going to grow into a vagabond. A scar on her face didn't matter. It was helpful, in fact. She realized that, once the burning pain and angry red had faded from around the cuts. When the rich gave her looks of pity as they handed her a few coins. If she limped, she earned more.

The pain only intensified as she grew older. The pain of losing James in a carriage accident. No one watched for urchins when they had places to go. He shouldn't have gotten under the wheels, they said. Foolish boy. The pain of losing mother to consumption. There had been nothing to do but watch her grow worse, coughing up blood and falling into a state of being constantly bedridden. They couldn't afford a doctor. And, even if they could, what could he do? There was no cure. Father caught it soon after, from taking care of mother. He'd forced Elizabeth from the house when mother took ill, trying to save her. That was when she learned the pain of abandonment. No mother, no father, no brother, just the other beggars who were not family. One of them informed her when father finally passed. Emotional pain, she found, hurt much worse than the pain of rusted razors.

After that, she'd given up on feeling pain. Best to be cold, the older vagabonds told her, cold and harsh like the ice on the Thames in the dead of winter. Best to be unfeeling when friends and partners dropped dead. Best to be uncaring when the police or upper class roughed her up. Best to be unmoving when a man thrust into her for the first time and took the last thing she had to sell. Maybe she would go to hell, like James had said, but he was dead and couldn't tell her if she would. The man's hands were rough and he stank of sweat and sea, but he had tried to be kind when she said she was a virgin. It wouldn't hurt but a bit, he said as he showed her the tattoos on his skin, lot less than these. After he fucked her, he told her about them. She had asked because he had wanted her to, and the other women said doing what they wanted got you more coin. He got them down at the docks, he said, to commemorate his voyages at sea. Hurts like hell itself, he said, but that made it all the better. It's worth the pain to have something meaningful.

When he left, Eliizabeth thought about what he said. Meaningful was a word she wasn't familiar with. What was meaningful? Dead curiosity drew her down to the docks to find the place the man had talked about. It was easy enough. Flirt with a few sailors, make a few promises, and they talked willingly. Going in was easy too. The man inside, pricking another with needles, didn't care that she was a woman, didn't care that she was a whore or a vagabond, as long as she had some coin. She gave him what the other man had given her, when he was done with the sailor in his chair. The way the man had groaned and the way the blood and ink had flowed piqued her interest. When she sat down, the man asked what she wanted. It'll be there forever, lass, he said, just like that scar on your face.

She thought for only a moment. Just like the scar, something that had hurt and been helpful. A mark on her body, a mar that would last forever. I could do something pretty, he said, something that would make you feel pretty. She shook her head. She hadn't been pretty in a long time. That's a shame, he said, for a woman not to feel pretty. He looked at her, malnourished and too thin. You look like a bird, he said, a little delicate bird that could just fly away from here. That's pretty, isn't it? She paused. A bird was pretty. Was she like a bird? She could be. Give me wings, she said, feathery wings on my back, just like a bird. Make them like they make the angel wings in the church, big enough to carry me away. That'll hurt a lot, he warned, something big like that. She didn't care.

The man brought her to where he kept his inks, asking what color she wanted. Black would be fine, she said, but he insisted that she really look and make sure that was what she wanted. It'll be there forever, he reminded her. She looked again, over the colors he'd made. There was one, right next to the black. It shimmered in the container like black abalone, the tainted inside of a shell. She knew that was the right one, the sameway she knew which way was the right way home. That one, she said, the shimmering one. He looked doubtful, but took it without a word. You'll have to open your dress, lass, he said, promise I won't do nothing untoward. Not that it mattered if he did. She unlaced her ragged, filthy dress so that he could get to her back.

He had been right, and so had the man who'd fucked her. It hurt like hell itself, but she didn't cry, didn't make a sound beyond a groan. And many hours later, when after he cleaned off the blood that had run from the needlepricks, the man sat back and told her that she looked just like an angel. She didn't believe him. It was the cleanest tattooing he'd ever done, he said, like the ink had stayed right up in her skin and refused to run at all. Unusual. Just like what had come about to make it. She didn't really care. If it was unusual or not unusual, it didn't matter. She had her wings. Maybe she really would just fly away.

Her first step out the door reminded her that she couldn't, as one of the sailors fro the dock swaggered up to her, already tugging at the ties of his trousers. You've a promise to keep, love, he said. She led him around a corner and let him push her to her knees.

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 **Welcome, all! This is a prologue to a new story that I dreamed up as I was rereading D. Gray -man. It was my first manga/anime and I still absolutely love it. I honestly don't know where this is going in some aspects. The general plot is planned and some major scenes are set, but, other than that, it's in a pretty fluid stage. The rest of the story will not be in this style. This was purely experimental and I liked the way it set the stage for what's coming. I apologize for any errors I didn't catch on my read-through. I was pretty pumped to post it.**

 **A few things I'll mention before I continue:**

 **1\. This story will be dark at first. Elizabeth is a very hopeless character who was forced to grow up before her time.**

 **2\. This is my first attempt writing a character with the kind of background Elizabeth has. I ask that you be patient with me as I work to build her.**

 **3\. There will an aspect of romance in this story, but, it is not there for fluffy good feels. If anything, it's implemented to help with character growth.**

 **4\. The main focus of this story will be on family ties and the way a community can help an individual heal from past hurts. Sappy, yes, but something that I find to be accurate.**

 **That's all for now. I hope to see you in future chapters!**


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